


if i look back

by usuallysunny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, Daenerys doesn't burn Kings Landing, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Post S8 Fix It, Post-Episode: s08e06 The Iron Throne, R Plus L Equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:40:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25677472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: Everything she had done in her life seemed to lead to this moment. The moment she found herself streaking across the sky on a dragon’s back, teetering on a knife’s edge. She could rise from the ashes or let the flames consume her.She thought of Jorah, of Missandei, of Jon…“If I look back,” she reminded herself, “I am lost.”ORThe bells toll and the world turns upside down. Daenerys and Jon try to adjust.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 41
Kudos: 526





	if i look back

The world seemed to pause for one solitary moment as Daenerys hovered in the clear blue sky.

Drogon fussed beneath her, waiting for his orders, and she waited too.

The air thinned, burning white hot until it strangled her throat. Her vision narrowed. It was like looking through a tunnel, all her senses muted.

She blinked at the war raging below. 

She saw Flea Bottom’s civilians running for shelter they couldn’t find—men, women and children. She saw Cersei’s Lannister red and Jon’s Northerners and her own Unsullied. She couldn’t make them out; it didn’t matter. They all looked like ants from up here. It was hard not to feel superior, to feel like a god, exalted high upon a dragon’s back.

She gripped at Drogon’s scales like she was at risk of sinking and falling away, vanishing into the dark. Time moved slower and the screams below sounded muffled, like she was under water. It took a moment for her to blink back to reality.

Everything in her life had seemed to lead to this moment. The moment she found herself streaking across the sky on a dragon’s back, unimaginable power in her hands. And if she just let _go,_ if she muttered _dracarys,_ it would all be over.

She thought of how far she’d come, of everything and everyone she had lost.

She thought first of Viserys. He had been weak and cowardly, but he was her brother still. She thought of Rhaegar, who everyone said was kind, but whose selfishness had brought a kingdom to its knees. She thought of a mother she’d never met and a father whose madness seemed to follow her everywhere, condemning her before she’d taken her first breath. She thought of her name, so rich in history, legendary, something to be proud of but also a millstone around her neck.

She thought of Drogo next, of how her fear had morphed into genuine love under a moon specked sky. She thought of their babe, of Rhaego, what he would have looked like and what he would have accomplished. He would have celebrated eight namedays by now. She thought of her other children, of Viserion and Rhaegal, and held onto Drogon a little tighter. They came at a time when she was broken, when she’d lost her son and she thought the pain would kill her, and they helped her breathe again.

She thought of Ser Barristan who was brave, and Daario who she could never bring herself to care about the way he cared about her. She thought of Ser Jorah, who loved her the best he could, and only ever wanted her happiness in return. She thought of Missandei, the best friend she’d ever had, and finally blinked back tears. She wondered what she would do, what she would say, if she could see her now. She always gave the best advice, always kept her grounded, and Daenerys felt completely lost without her.

She thought of Jon.

Tiny shards of pain stabbed at her heart like glass; it felt like she was dragging them in with every breath.

He was right _there,_ beneath her, fighting for her on the streets of Kings Landing—but she had lost him all the same.

She thought of the way he had looked at her then, and the way he looked at her now.

The truth had destroyed them, as she warned him it would, and he was cold and he pulled away from her and _yet_ —she loved him still.

She had never loved anyone the way she loved him.

The bells tolled again, ringing out Cersei’s surrender, and Daenerys felt white hot rage bubble inside her.

It licked at her insides like an inferno, scorching hot and suffocating, and she had to make a decision. It would be so easy to let the flames consume her.

She imagined uttering that single word and watching the whole shit city burn. She imagined building it again from the ashes, a new world, a _better_ world. She thought it would probably be very satisfying to just give in, to surrender, to stop feeling the loss and disappointment and unbearable pain. She could switch it all off, bend and snap under the madness everyone had assigned her anyway, and perhaps then she would know peace.

She thought of all those ghosts, the people she had loved and lost, and she teetered on the knife’s edge.

But _then_ —

She remembered how far she’d come. She remembered this was all she’d ever wanted and now it was right _there,_ within her grasp. Everything in her life had led her here and she couldn’t give up now.

She had to push on. 

“If I look back,” she whispered to the wind and headed for the Red Keep, “I am lost.”   
  


* * *

  
It was a curious thing, to get everything you ever wanted.

As she stood before the Iron Throne, _finally,_ Daenerys tried to process the feeling.

It was something heady and strange, an ache that started in the pit of her belly and slithered up until it strangled her throat. It mixed with the ash and smoke, the burning embers that still flickered around her, and she briefly closed her eyes.

Her hand was steady as it reached for the throne.

She opened her eyes just as her fingers touched the sharp edges of a blade. When she was little, Viserys had told her it was made of a thousand swords from Aegon’s fallen enemies. It appeared he had been wrong about that, as he had been wrong about most things. As she stood in the ruins of the castle her family had built, she touched that chair and thought of all those who had died for it.

She ran a fingertip across a jagged edge and felt it vibrate through her entire body. It was something potent, something powerful. Images and memories she didn’t even have seared unbidden behind her vision.

She saw her father sitting there, madness in his eyes as he screamed _burn them all._ She saw the glimmering waters of the Trident turn red, full of the rubies that had shattered free from Rhaegar’s armour the moment Robert Baratheon put his warhammer to it. She saw the false Queen Cersei Lannister, taking what was hers.

Then she saw only Jon—his sullen figure reflected in the steel before her.

She briefly closed her eyes, took a breath, and tried to shake off the feeling that she was entering another war.

She turned.

He looked strong and stoic and brooding— _the same_. His fingers twitched at his sides like he didn’t quite know what to do with them and she remembered what they felt like on her body, touching her in the dark when he thought it was okay. For her, it was still okay—because she loved him and she was sure he still loved her and what could be wrong about that? She remembered what he was like when he was happy and relaxed and in love. She would always remember him that way.

“Is it over?” he asked.

She stared at him, an ache in her chest.

“It’s over,” she confirmed.

Painful silence stretched out in the widening gap between them.

In the distance, she heard Drogon’s mournful cry. He still grieved for his brothers, as she did, but only she was able to tell. Only she understood the meaning behind each screech, each roar.

 _“They're not beasts to me,”_ she had said once, _“no matter how big they get, no matter how terrifying they are to everyone else — they're my children.”_

But dragon’s blood flowed through Jon’s veins too now. She wondered if he could understand Drogon too, if he felt what she felt. She’d never seen her children trust another person the way they trusted him. 

His brows were still pulled into a frown and she remembered his words too, spoken one balmy afternoon on the shores of Dragonstone.

_“But if you use them to melt castles and burn cities, you’re not different. You’re just more of the same.”_

“I destroyed the Red Keep,” she conceded quietly, “I melted the castle—but I saved the city. I killed only my enemies, as you have done in the past to those who have wronged you. Yet you still do not approve.”

She watched the movement of his armoured chest as he sighed.

“It’s not that. I—” he sighed again, the words lodging in his throat. He had always been a man of few words and none when it came to his feelings. She could count on one hand the number of times he’d said _I love you,_ and she yearned to hear it again, “—I’m worried about you, Dany.”

 _Dany,_ the name made her ache.

She held her head high, setting her jaw.

“Worry about yourself, Jon,” she said, her tone clipped, “I don’t need your concern.”

He nodded curtly but she could tell he didn’t believe her.

“Where’s Cersei?” he asked quietly.

She bristled.

“Buried under the rubble, I suppose,” she answered eventually, “along with her traitor brother.”

He took a step towards her, his hand kind of reaching for her before he pulled it back.

His eyes flickered over her, from her silver silk hair, some strands displaced from the wind, to her spotless clothes. She didn’t look like she’d won a war; in the end, it had been effortless. The bells had rung out and perhaps she didn’t need to burn down the Red Keep, the castle her family had built, but she wanted to start a fresh. She wanted to destroy everything the false Queen had touched.

“Are you alright?” Jon asked finally, his tone achingly gentle.

She nodded and then to her horror, tears were burning behind her eyes. She tried to turn her face away before he could see but it was too late and his dark expression softened.

“I’m fine,” she whispered, the intensity of it choking her, “it's just… a little much.”

She had fought for it for so long, had almost convinced herself she’d never get there—and now she was standing in the ruins of the Red Keep and the throne was right _there_ and it overwhelmed her. She felt elated and empty at the same time, excited and exhausted.

She wanted to get started, to build her new world, and she wanted to rest.

He took another step towards her and he looked so handsome and so strong and so _hers,_ the agony of war still written on his face.

“You’ll be a good Queen,” he murmured gently, “I always said so.”

She swallowed past the lump in her throat.

“That hasn’t changed?”

“Never.”

Tears welled in her throat at the confirmation he still believed in her. It gave her the confidence to push a little further, to try and reel him back in. Her boots crunched on the ruins as she took a step towards him, ash and stone from the crumbling castle still raining down.

She reached for him and he let her. She touched a hand to his face, felt the grit of his beard under her palm, coarse and rough with ash and dirt. She ran her thumb along the sharp edge of his cheekbone, wiping away the blood from a cut that kept opening.

“I want you by my side,” she whispered, “ _with_ me, building the new world with me. This is our _reason._ It’s why Melisandre brought us together, fire and ice. It’s the combination that makes us strong; alone we don’t stand a chance. I want you to be my Hand. To advise me, to steer me, to counsel me and defend my honour. More than that, I want you to be my King.”

She felt him stiffen, the strong line of his jaw clenching under her hand.

“I can’t,” he said blankly.

“You _can._ "

That shuttered expression swept over his face.

“I will be your Hand,” he started, “I’ll be with you… but not like that.”

She tried to keep her expression unaffected, even as her insides screamed at the wrongness of the idea. She could feel him retreating, pulling away from her, and in the blink of an eye, he’d be gone. The rest of her long life, without him. He’d be there, but not _really_ there—she’d be without his hands and his mouth and everything about him that made her feel safe.

She would have him in a way that was distant and indifferent and cold. In some ways, it would be worse than not having him at all.

She sighed and let her hands drift from his face to his chest. The steel of his armour was cool under her burning palms and she slid them to his own hands, rough and calloused. She picked up his heavy arms and dragged them around her waist.

“No,” he muttered, tilting his head away, and he looked like he was in pain.

“Put your arms around me, Jon.”

“It hurts,” he said and she knew he wasn’t talking about the cuts from enemies’ blades or the bruises blooming under his armour.

A muscle near his ear ticked as he clenched his jaw. His eyes were black, his limbs taut with the strength of his restraint, but after a moment, he relented. He let out a little sound, somewhere between a grunt and a groan, and pulled her into him.

She sighed, overwhelmed with the sensation of having him in her arms again. Her arms were around his neck and he felt strong and good and warm like home. Her nose skimmed the hollow of his throat and she breathed him in, all ash and smoke and war. He had fought for her; he had bled for her. She wasn’t letting him go.

Maybe he was as tortured by this as she was, maybe he had yearned for her, because when she turned her head and found his mouth, he didn’t push her away. He kissed her back with a little groan of submission. His mouth opened and her tongue found its way inside and he _tasted_ like ash and smoke too. It tangled with hers, rough and hot silk, and her body burst into flames. He swallowed her moan, his mouth slanting over hers, his kiss messy and desperate.

It was nothing like the dutiful, perfunctory kisses he’d been leaving on her lips since they found out who he was. She was tired of rejection, tired of being pushed away. It was nothing like the tortured kiss he’d broken away from the night she’d killed Varys. She’d told him she had no love here and he’d said he loved her but he’d pulled back anyway.

It wasn’t even like the kisses he’d given her _before_ they knew. Back then, he’d been passionate and loving, but always achingly gentle. He’d made love to her like she was something breakable, something to be revered, and he was always careful to rein in his strength.

It was how he'd kissed her after the feast, when the Long Night was done, a little drunk with his blood up and still raging from battle. He’d lost himself for a moment and tugged at her clothes, a man starved, ready to take her like a beast, like a _wolf_. He’d stopped himself then, but she prayed he wouldn’t stop himself now.

She kissed him harder, all tongues, teeth, heat and passion. She bit his bottom lip and revelled in his groan, a thick growl from deep within his chest. Her blood rushed and she felt wild. She had won a war and she wanted to claim her prize. She wanted to push him down into the bloody stone and ride him until his eyes rolled. She wanted to spread her legs for him and have him fuck her and feel her clench tight around his length, bringing him to a peak so powerful, he would _have_ to call her Queen.

But then he was pulling away and she wanted to scream.

He stepped back and anger flared red hot under her skin.

“Jon, we wouldn’t be here if Sam hadn’t told you,” she insisted, her eyes and throat burning, “before that, we were _good_. You remember? In Dragonstone, on the boat, in Winterfell before we knew… we were happy. We could get back there.”

His pupils were blown to black.

“We can’t,” he murmured in that rough northern burr, “it’s nobody’s fault.”

She narrowed her eyes, her defences flying up around her.

“This disgusts you," she said dully, emptily, "I disgust you.”

He frowned, his reply quick and sure this time.

“No, you’re beautiful,” he insisted, his voice low and rough, “you’ll always be the most beautiful thing in the world to me. But you’re my aunt.”

 _There it is_ , she thought, what it all boiled down to.

She raged against it because she just didn’t _care._

“We were strangers our whole lives,” she tried to reason, “and Targaryens wed brother and sister for centuries. We could make it right again.”

“Aye, we could,” he said quietly, “and this is how. I’m not a Targaryen. Ned Stark raised me. I have his blood… and I am of the North. I always will be.”  
  
He had been raised as a Stark, a family so prickly, she thought they should have taken the hedgehog as their sigil. They were melancholy, pensive and gruff and cold like the North. He was unapologetically honourable and honest, sometimes painfully so, and he wasn’t like the perfumed lords of the South. The Starks weren’t like Lannisters or Targaryens and their family bond would always bother him in a way it didn’t bother her.  
  
He stepped back and felt very far away again.  
  
“Congratulations on your victory, Daenerys,” he said gently, “I would be honoured to serve as your Hand… but I cannot be your King.”

She set her jaw and tried to push down the anger swirling in the pit of her stomach. She watched him as he walked away, her heart in her throat.

She thought about how far they’d come. Somewhere along the way, they had gotten lost, but right there and then, she made a promise to herself.

She would bring him back to her.  
  


* * *

  
“You could forgive him,” Jon insisted a week after it was done, when Cersei and Jaime’s bodies were confirmed to be burned and buried in dust, and the city had started to heal. “The city is yours. The people are yours. What’s done is done.”

Daenerys drummed her fingernails on the table, her patience wearing thin.

“Is that how you greeted betrayal and treason when you were Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, or King in the North?” she asked, arching a delicate brow.

He raised a brow of his own and turned his face away. It was clear enough of an answer but it still irritated her.

“No please, tell me,” she waved a hand, “when your men broke their vows or deserted their posts or openly rebelled against you… did you just shrug and say _what’s done is done_?”

His dark eyes returned to hers and she was thrilled by the fiery edge in them. Anger was good, something intense and burning. Anger made you move, made you _want._

“Tyrion _betrayed_ me,” she seethed, the reminder burning white hot inside her, “even before he released his brother, he was a poor and stupid advisor. Part of me thinks he was working for the Lannisters the entire time. If I had listened to Olenna Tyrell instead, I would have attacked Kings Landing when I was in the perfect position. I wouldn’t have lost Dorne, the Iron Islands and the Reach. I wouldn’t have lost Rhaegal and Missandei.”

Jon gave a heavy sigh, wiping a hand over his face. He looked so _tired_ all the time, torn and tortured, but she didn’t know by what.

“This world you’re wanting to create…” he started, all low northern gruff, “shouldn’t it be a world of forgiveness? Something different from what came before, different from Cersei. Sometimes it’s better to answer injustice with mercy.”

Daenerys blinked, remembering how Ser Barristan had said exactly the same.

She narrowed her eyes and told Jon what she had told him.

“I will answer injustice with justice.”

His top lip twitched under his beard, his temper flaring, but he got himself in check. The same as always. He turned his face away and tented his hands over his mouth.

She wanted a reaction, ached for one, and an idea sparked through her mind.

“And your sister…” it worked almost immediately, his dark eyes flashing to her, “…I know what they call her. The Seven Kingdoms belong to me. By declaring herself Queen of the northernmost kingdom, Sansa is in open rebellion.” 

“ _Don’t_ , Dany,” he growled and it shouldn’t have given her a thrill, but it _did,_ “just—don’t.”

She stood, slowly making her way around the table. She noticed him tense, the way his hands travelled to the arms of his chair and held on tight.

“Do you know what perhaps angers me the most about Tyrion?” she asked, her finger trailing along the table’s edge as she walked, “the fact that he persuaded me to say no when Daario begged to sail with me to Westeros. That man was devoted to me. He would have done anything for me… but I left him behind in Meereen... and met _you._ ”

Jon’s eyes darkened, something stormy and dangerous.

He kept her gaze as she walked around the edge of the table and finally stood in-front of him.

“Are you trying to hurt me?” he asked roughly.

She quirked a brow, looking down at him.

“How could I?” the question was punctuated with an angry, incredulous shrug, “you’re like stone.”

He had always been brooding and withdrawn, but this was different. He was right here—yet she missed him so much, it made her ache. She missed his hands and his kisses and his smiles, so rare but blinding once earned. She missed the way he held her and worried for her and loved her and mostly, she missed the way they loved each other. 

He averted his eyes, his jaw clenching again.

“It’s like you feel nothing for me,” she added, “like the past year never happened at all.”

He shook his head, looking tired and sad and older than his years.

“That’s not true,” he said quietly.

“No?”

“I loved you,” he murmured, “I love you still.”

The words resonated in her chest, a deep ache that strangled her throat. She decided to push him, to make him _show it,_ because she was tired of having to prove her worth. She took a final step forward, pinched her dress at the thighs and climbed into his lap.

He let out a little grunt, his head tipping back slightly and his hands twitching on the arm of the chair. It looked like he was holding back, trying to keep himself from touching her, and she wanted him to let go. She wanted to break him like he was breaking her.

“So it _does_ bother you when I speak of Daario?” she hummed, leaning in so her nose grazed his cheekbone, “to think of his hands on me, his mouth on me…”

She couldn’t see his face but she could feel his body’s reaction. He stiffened, a little growl rolling from his chest, and then his hands were on her. He gripped her waist, tugging her closer and pushing her away, all at the same time.

“Aye, it does,” he admitted in a low, dark voice, “it bothers me to think of you with any man.”

“But you won’t touch me.”

He exhaled, long and deep, his fingers tight around her waist. Her mouth found his ear, the grit of his beard rough against her cheek.

“Don’t I deserve a man who touches me?” she asked, her tone purposefully seductive. She had taken to wearing her thick silver hair in a braid, symbolic of her victories, but now she wished it was loose. She wanted to feel his fingers running through it, tugging it, “who makes me tremble, as you did once? I could find a lover. He wouldn’t be like you, as _good_ as you. He probably wouldn’t make me peak like you did. He wouldn’t do that thing you do with your tongue…”

Jon’s breath had quickened, his chest rising and falling a little quicker, and one of his hands splayed out across her lower back. She rolled her hips and paused when she felt it. His cock was hardening, stirring to life between her thighs. Molten heat pooled in the pit of her belly at the confirmation he still wanted her. _This_ was something he couldn’t hide, and she slid her clothed, aching cunt across his length.

He grunted, releasing a thick growl like a wolf. It made her feel wild. She held his dark gaze, their heavy breaths mingling in the gap between them, as her nimble fingers unlaced his breeches. His gaze became hooded, cool dark steel, as the atmosphere blistered. She could feel herself soaking her smallclothes and she registered the flare of his nostrils, as though he _knew_.

She reached into his breeches and took hold of his thick cock. There was a flash of white as he hissed through his teeth, his head tipping back. He was hot velvet in her hand, throbbing and filled with blood and weeping from the tip. She swiped her thumb over the head and smeared the pre-cum that had gathered there down his length.

She pumped him once, twice, before he blinked to his senses.

“I can’t—" he gritted out, his voice close to a snarl, "—you’re my aunt."

She ripped her hand away, arching a brow at his desperate groan.

“Tell that to your cock,” she whispered, revelling in his little shudder.

She stood up and left him hard and aching.  
  


* * *

  
That eve, Daenerys finally won her validation.

She received confirmation of what she knew all along.

Making her way to her rooms, the part of the Red Keep most urgently under construction, she heard a deep grunt. It was coming from the room Jon had assigned himself and her curiosity got the better of her. She walked to the door, noticed it slightly ajar, and peeked through the gap.

Her eyes widened at the sight of Jon laying in bed, stroking his thick cock.

His furs had been tossed aside, leaving him bare and beautiful, his chest shining with a thin layer of sweat. She knew it was too hot for him here. She often noticed him tugging uncomfortably at his tunics; she selfishly enjoyed the way the material clung to his chest. They said northerners were made of ice, that they melted when they passed the Twins, and here, thick, moist air covered the city like a blanket.

She knew she should walk away. It was wrong to pry when he didn’t know she was looking, a betrayal of his privacy. But her feet were rooted to the spot, sticking to the stone like moss.

Her breathing grew heavier as his hand twisted over his throbbing length, squeezing the tip. His other hand was fisting the sheets, his knuckles white. His arms were big and strong, his scarred chest broad and solid. He had a warrior’s physique that made her mouth water and she watched the muscles in his arm tense as he pumped his cock harder. His face turned to his pillow, muffling his moan.

She looked at his cock almost mournfully, remembering how it felt inside her, how it stroked parts of her no man had ever reached before. She remembered how it felt to be filled by him, so perfect, so right, like he’d been made for her. She remembered the heavy weight of it on her tongue, how it felt those few times his honour had slipped and he’d fucked her mouth. She liked it the most when he lost control, when he let go for her. He could have a filthy mouth in the heat of the moment.

She nearly moaned out loud when he brought his hand to his mouth and licked his palm. Then he returned it to his cock and resumed his strokes.

Her cunt felt on fire as she recognised him reaching the edge. She was aching and wet, her clit pulsing. She wanted to touch herself. She wanted to touch _him._ His hand moved faster, his brows furrowed, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Fuck,” he swore under his breath and said something else she didn’t quite catch, thrusting rapidly into his slick palm until he suddenly went stiff. His entire body lifted off the bed as he came with a groan. Thick streams of white spurted from the slit in his cock, pooling in the hard planes and ridges of his belly.

With an ache between her thighs and her heart beating wildly in her chest, Daenerys finally registered what he’d said.

He’d choked out two syllables, a single word drifting on a heated gasp, a prayer.

_“Dany.”  
  
_

* * *

_  
_Somewhere along the way, Daenerys stopped fighting for him.

She didn’t know when it happened, couldn’t pinpoint a time or date. She just wasn’t actively yearning for him anymore. Her desperation started to make her feel nauseous. She was a Queen and Queens didn’t beg. Especially not Dragon Queens.

They continued as allies, rebuilding each other’s trust, and what was there between them still rumbled under the surface. Intense, aching, unspoken. 

She supposed it was a strange twist of fate, that he came back to her just as she decided to let him go.

She had been riding Drogon when he’d jerked too suddenly and she’d slipped, tumbling through the crisp summer air. He’d dipped down with a screech and caught her on his back, but the landing had been hard and Daenerys felt like she’d been trampled by a dozen horses. Greyworm had carried her, despite her insistence she could walk, and now she laid in bed, bored out of her mind.

She was staring at the canopy when her chamber door slammed open, so hard she was surprised it didn’t fly off its hinges.

Jon was in the doorway, his eyes wild.

“Leave us,” he demanded.

The guards hovered because they didn’t obey him, they obeyed _her._ The two men looked at her and she gave a curt nod of assent. They left and Jon closed the door behind them. He moved over to her, his brows furrowed, and sat by her bedside.

He took her hand, his expression achingly gentle, and she wanted to pull it back. She didn’t want him looking at her like that, soft and caring and so worried for her. Anger or desire or even hatred was easier.

“Gods, Dany…” he choked out, his eyes flying over her, like he was searching for injuries, “you have to be careful.”

His thumb swiped over the back of her hand and she flinched, drawing it back.

“I don’t _have_ to do anything,” she muttered, throwing the furs off so she could stand. She wanted to get away from this conversation. She winced slightly when she stood on her sore, probably twisted ankle, moving over to the other side of the bed. “I am a Queen.”

“Aye, you are,” he murmured quietly, “that’s exactly why you should be careful.”

She sat down on the edge, her back to him, but then he was standing and walking too. Her hands gripped the furs either side of her in fists as he knelt by her feet.

“Let me see.”

She scoffed, her heart clenching painfully.

“I didn’t realise you were a healer now.”

He laughed and it made her ache. She hadn’t heard his laugh in _so long._ It made him sound younger than he was. Like a man who’d never journeyed south, who’d never seen the horrors of war and never died. She always thought he should laugh more.

He touched her ankle, his fingers achingly gentle. They drifted over the raw skin, the skin that would probably mottle purple and blue come morning. She practically whined at the touch, desperate for any scraps of his attention. It made her sick.

“It might be broken,” she said.

His mouth twitched under his beard, a melancholy sort of smile.

“If it was broken, you’d be crying.”

“I am crying,” she whispered, and only then realised she was.

Jon sighed, his head bowing as his hands went to his sides. She ached from the loss. But he wasn’t pulling away this time, she noticed in surprise. He wasn’t walking away.

“I could have killed Greyworm,” he muttered, “I know he’s... reserved, but he wouldn’t tell me you were okay—no-one would—only that you’d fell from Drogon and _gods,_ Dany, I thought the worst.”

It was the most he’d spoken to her in weeks and she kept quiet, not wanting the moment to break.

“I thought I'd lost you and I never had the chance to tell you…”

She swallowed, her heart in her throat.

“Tell me what?”

It took a moment for his eyes to drag to hers, dark and stormy.

“I miss you,” he whispered brokenly, “I miss you so much. That nothing has changed for me. I want you as much as I did back then— _more_.”

She felt the words like an ache in her chest, a weight being lifted.

“Jon, what are you saying?” she asked tiredly, not in the mood to be played with, for this push and pull.

His hand went to her knee, squeezing it gently. His eyes were impossibly dark, almost black, and she held her breath and waited for his revelation.

“I’m saying—you’re my aunt and I can’t be in love with you,” she almost pushed him away in frustration but then his hand was holding her knee tighter and he was continuing, “but I am anyway. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. It hurts… but it’s nothing compared to not having you at all.”

She reached for him without realising it, holding his face in her hands.

“I’ve waited for you,” she said sadly, “I didn’t mean it when I spoke about finding a lover. Even if you never came around… there will never be anyone else for me.”

“Just you,” he muttered, “only you.”

And then he kissed her.

He leaned up and captured her mouth, soft and gentle and nothing like the night she took her throne. It wasn’t messy or painful or desperate; it was _right,_ like coming home. It was _I’ve missed you, I love you_ and _I’m sorry,_ all wrapped up in their mouths.

He lifted himself to both knees, eye level with her, and cradled her face. His lips were hot and sweet and soft and when he slipped his tongue into her mouth, she gave a needy moan. Her hands flew to his hair, tugging at the leather band that tied it back, so she could finally tangle her fingers in his curls. He groaned when her nails scratched his scalp, the sound flying straight to her aching cunt.

His own fingers dug into her thighs and he broke away from her mouth to murmur a command.

“Spread your legs for me.”

She obeyed instantly, splitting her thighs so he could settle between them. He tugged her closer until she was flush against him, all hard, solid muscle. His tongue licked inside the hot cavern of her mouth, tangling with hers, every slide causing a blaze to sweep over her skin.

She moaned when he broke away from her mouth and started biting down her neck, his tongue laving the kisses he left behind. She felt the grit of his beard, a rough contrast to the softness of his mouth. Her breath hitched as he paused to suck a bloom into her collarbone. She knew it would blossom into a bruise come morning and she flushed at the thought—of being marked as his, of trying to hide it from her men.

He dragged his mouth up her neck, planting kisses along her jaw. Her eyes fell shut as her legs splayed open even wider and she _felt_ it, an insistent bulge pressing against the dampening apex of her thighs. Pleasure sparked from her head to her toes as she rubbed against his erection, revelling in the choked moan he bit into her neck.

She tugged at his jerkin, horrible memories of when he’d pushed her away searing behind her eyes. But he wasn’t pushing her away now, as she untied his laces and he kissed her again. His mouth slanted over hers as his insistent fingers pulled at her dress.

“Get these bloody clothes off,” he grunted against her mouth.

She had to stand up to do it and he roughly turned her around, his skilful fingers unlacing her dress quickly. He tugged it down until it pooled at her waist, his mouth latching onto her neck as she moaned and helped him pull it the rest of the way. She kicked the material to the side when it fell to her feet, her sore ankle forgotten.

She could hear some rustling behind her as he undressed. She removed her undergarments and soaked smallclothes and then she felt his bare chest against her back, the ridges of his scars, a solid wall of muscle. His arms wrapped around her, drifting over her curves, reacquainting himself with her body. 

His mouth was hot at her ear.

“Bend over.”

She bit her lip to contain her moan, a shudder tracing down her spine as he gently pushed her down with a hand on the small of her back. She laid her burning cheek against the furs, groaning as he nudged her legs apart with his foot. Her wetness was sliding down her thighs and she felt them slip together before she spread them wider.

She felt exposed, completely spread open for him. It felt good to relinquish power for a little while, a role reversal that made her shiver.

“Such a perfect arse,” he muttered, more to himself than to her, and his hand rubbed over the curve of one cheek. 

She fisted the furs in her hands as he gave the cheek a smack, a moan tumbling from her lips. She heard more rustling and guessed he was removing his breeches. She writhed and expected to be filled by his cock, but then she heard him sink to his knees instead.

“ _Please_ ,” she moaned, “fuck me.”

He let out a little rumbling hum.

“I need to taste your cunt first,” he said—and then he spread her cheeks and licked her.

She moaned into the bed, her cheeks on fire as he buried his face in her arse. Her toes curled into the cold stone, her aching nipples pressed into the sheets. His hot tongue slid up and down her slit, drinking in her essence, his fingers trailing up her glistening thighs. He mouthed at her dripping cunt for a while before he flipped her over, moulding her body like clay, tossing her around as though she weighed less than nothing.

He stayed on his knees but tugged her by the hips until her arse was half off the bed. Then he spread her thighs and dove back in. She choked on a sob as he slipped two fingers inside her, filling her for the first time in _she couldn’t remember when._ His tongue flicked her hard nub as his fingers fucked her, slick and fast.

He read her body like a book, remembered what kiss, what touch, what suck would push her over the edge. She started to writhe, her back arching against the bed, her cunt shoved further into his mouth.

“That’s it, my love,” he growled thickly into her cunt, “come for me, let me taste you again.”

Her eyes rolled back in her head as she obeyed his command, her body pulling taut like a bow before it snapped. The orgasm rushed over her with an unbelievable force, her thighs trembling around his head as he lapped at her. His arm was slung over her belly, keeping her still as he rode her through it.

He licked at her until she had to push him away, buzzing from oversensitivity.

She shuddered as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It didn’t do much in the way of cleaning and his beard still glistened with her wetness. When he stood, she saw he _had_ removed his breeches. His cock jutted out from a thick thatch of black hair, straight and proud. She couldn't believe he'd gotten that hard from eating her out and she whimpered as he gave his length a few lazy pumps.

She sat up, meeting him halfway as he leaned down for a kiss.

“You taste as sweet as I remember,” he murmured against her mouth, his tongue tart with the taste of her, “nothing is as sweet as your cunt.”

“It’s probably even sweeter to fuck,” she whispered back, smiling against his lips as the words made him groan.

She laid back, shifting until her head was on the pillow. He settled over her and he was all marble, strong and smooth. She cradled him between her thighs and felt his length rub up and down her slit. She moaned heavily as the head of his cock kissed her clit.

“Please,” she choked on a sob, trying to draw him inside, “please—I need you. It’s been too long.”

“Aye, it has,” he murmured in agreement, one hand travelling to his cock and lining it with her entrance, “I never want to be away from you again.”

She kissed him and held her breath as he slipped inside her.

She exhaled shakily, feeling warm and full and complete. He moaned too, balancing his weight on his forearms as he began to move. Everything that had happened between them seemed to float away, melting into nothingness. She forgot it all, the cold sting of rejection, all the hurt and loneliness and pain of missing him. She knew what he meant now, that being without each other hurt more. She couldn’t care about the blood they shared because this was perfect and it was _right_.

Her wet cunt clenched around his length, trying to keep him inside as he pulled out and pushed back in again to the hilt. He fucked her in shallow thrusts, her walls readjusting to the sweet stretch. She spread her thighs wider and dug her nails into his perfect arse, urging him to go faster.

“Harder,” she begged, “fuck me harder.”

He growled his approval, drawing out only to slam back in. He kept himself there for a moment, grinding his pelvis against her clit.

“Aye, that’s how you like it,” he grunted, “I remember.”

He rolled his hips lazily and she met him thrust for thrust.

She leaned up to kiss him, their tangling tongues mimicking the movement of their hips below. She broke away when he hit the perfect spot, a moan bursting from her kiss-swollen lips.

“Gods, you feel…” she choked on an exhale, her breath hitching. He merely nodded in reply, like he couldn’t speak, but he _knew._ His mouth travelled down her neck again before she decided she wanted more.

She squeezed him between her thighs and flipped them over, smirking at his little grunt of surprise. He slipped out of her and flopped against his belly, long and hard and glistening wet from her cunt. She took his length in her hand, positioned it over her entrance, and sunk down.

He hissed, his hands travelling to her hips.

“Is this alright?” she whispered, sliding up and down his cock.

“Fuck, yes Dany,” he bit out on a groan, “you're perfect. Ride me, love.”

Her heart clenched in her chest.

“Say it again.”

“My love,” he murmured reverently, his hand coming up to cover her heart, “I love you. I _love_ you—I'm so sorry.”

She sighed, her tight walls clenching around his length.

“I love you,” she repeated and it felt so good to say the words out loud. It must have felt good to hear them too because he was sitting up, latching his mouth to her neck before he dragged it to her breast. He took a dusky pink nipple into his mouth, tugging it between his teeth. His hand covered the other one, squeezing it. 

“Gods, I’ve missed your tits,” he growled before his tongue flicked her hard nipple, “missed your mouth, missed your tight cunt, missed _you_.”

He fucked her harder, his hips pounding from below, until he peaked first. He came with her name on his lips and it was the best thing she’d ever heard. She felt his cock swell and pulse as he shot hot streams of cum inside her, coating her needy womb. He fucked her through it, grunting like an animal, a wolf, as he sought her second peak.

His hand travelled between her wet thighs, his thumb rubbing insistent circles on her clit.

“That’s it,” he purred, working her expertly, “come for me, my love. My Queen.”

She shivered, impaling herself harder on his cock, and with one final push, she broke apart. Her wet channel clenched around him, milking his softening cock, a sob of pleasure ripping from her throat. She felt his cum drip down her thighs when she lifted herself off him and collapsed by his side. Her hair fanned out in a silver curtain as she settled on his chest.

She didn’t know it yet, but a few moons later, in this same position, he would call her _my wife._

A few moons after that, she would stop bleeding and start being sick in the mornings. She’d wouldn’t speak out loud what she suspected to be true. _Has it ever occurred to you she might not have been a reliable source of information?_ Jon had once said of the witch who had cursed her, but Daenerys didn’t dare believe it. Not after she’d spent so many years mourning what could never be.

It _couldn’t_ be true.

Only when her belly started to curve did she finally believe it. The smile he would give her when she told him was blinding, one she’d never seen before, and he wouldn’t stop fussing over her until their son came into the world.

 _“My little dragon,”_ he’d say to the bundle in his arms, finally at peace with his heritage, and she wouldn’t feel love like it again until the silver haired, grey eyed boy babbled _Mama_ for the first time.

Everything slotted into place, everything was the way it was supposed to be, and Daenerys _knew_ —

She would never look back again.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote all this today! Weird Sunday productivity. I was in a Jonerys mood, especially after the oneshot I posted yesterday. I've always wanted to write something post canon, or something that dealt with the last two episodes, but it always felt very raw. I'm sure this isn't a unique plot, but I hope it came off okay. I didn't go into the politics of it all on purpose, because I wanted to focus on the raw angst and emotions between these two. 
> 
> Oh, this was also inspired by an Office meme. I can't find it now but it was that clip where Pam says "stop dating my mother!" and Michael says, "you know what, I'm gonna start dating her even harder." The meme is D&D telling us to stop loving Dany and I think about that pretty much daily.


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